


A Sign of Constancy

by kaci3PO



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5043847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaci3PO/pseuds/kaci3PO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know you wanted him to stop you," she says softly. "You wanted to finally be able to see the world the way he does. You wanted to trust. And he picked the exact wrong words and said the worst thing he could've said. I know you've dreamed that day over and over again in your mind and made him say something different every time. And I know that every single night he still ends up lying in your arms and pushing you away."</p>
<p>His eyes fall closed then, and he feels himself careening towards rage, all control starting to slip away. And then he feels her pushing at the edge of his mind, an image of Charles suddenly springing to life behind his eyelids.</p>
<p>"I can make him feel real," she says. "I can make him say the right thing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sign of Constancy

**Author's Note:**

> I started this shortly after XFC came out, so as you can see, I complete fics in a timely and reasonable fashion.

"Go to bed, Emma."

She rises to her knees, his blankets pooling to her knees where she kneels on his bed.

"Honey," she says, far too patronizing, "you need this."

Magneto rubs at his temple, then jerks his fingers away almost immediately. Right. No.

"I need you to let me get some sleep."

"You're lonely, Magneto. We all see it." Her lower lip sticks out in a pout and her chest heaves in a way that Magneto knows is entirely for his benefit.

"Thanks for your concern," he says, and gives her his best I'm-Fine-Now-Leave-Me-The-Fuck-Alone face.

She leans forward, planting her hands on the bed in front of her, making her cleavage seem even larger.

"Magneto," she says, voice taking on the pout her lips have already mastered, "you need to release some tension."

"I'm not _tense_ ," he hisses, but the effect is kind of mitigated when his bed frame twists with a loud groan.

She raises an eyebrow at him and if this weren't the fourth time—this month—he's found her like this in his bed, he might be more inclined to be kind about his rejection.

"Please see yourself out," he tells her, and turns his back to her. There's a long pause before he finally hears the door shut.

***

"Emma—" he starts when she walks into his bedroom two days later.

"Just hear me out," she says calmly.

" _I'm not going to sleep with you_ ," he grits out.

"That's not why I'm here."

"You are _so lucky_ I need a telepath."

She purses her lips, then says, "When you came for me in the CIA, you told me that your telepath, that Xavier, had left a hole in your life and you wanted me to fill it."

"Don't bring Charles into this," he snaps, his fingers instantly curling into fists.

"You meant it, though. Didn't you?"

"What are you—"

She tilts her head to where his helmet sits on the desk.

"I can give him back to you," she says, with the same touch of patronization from before.

He takes a step back and grabs for his helmet, but he doesn't reach it in time before she continues, "I can make you see him. Feel him. I can let you talk to him."

"I've seen what you can do."

"Then you know that you won't even know it's not real. You'll be able to be with him again."

"With—"

"The night before the beach," she says thoughtfully, like she's turning over his memory in her mind. "You wanted me to fill the hole he left. I can do that for you, Erik."

No one's called him Erik in months—she was the last, that day in the CIA—and it's the sound of his name that makes him pause.

"It's what he called you," she says slowly. "It's why you don't want us to. But I can give all that back to you. At least for a little while. I can let you be Erik again."

"You need to leave. Right now. You need to turn around, walk out this door, and forget whatever it was that you saw in my head. And then you need to spend some time praying that I figure out a way to let this go."

"You needed a telepath. Let me do my job."

"I needed you as a weapon, not as—"

The corners of her lips twitch up into a smile. "As therapy?"

Magneto doesn't tell her that he _doesn't need therapy_ because he's self-aware enough to know that that's really just asking for further insults. Instead he steps into her space and glares down at her, biting out each word slowly and carefully.

"Emma, you need to leave this room right now because we are allies and it's to both of our advantages if we keep it that way."

"Is it the sex? Because trust me, I've seen far worse than—"

He pushes the memory that instantly fills his mind away, unsure if she's still reading him or not but determined not to give her any more ammunition.

"None of it. I don't—I don't _need_."

"I've seen your memories of the beach," she says idly. "Trust me, you do."

"Don't," he says, because that day is his and his alone.

"I know you wanted him to stop you," she says softly. "You wanted to finally be able to see the world the way he does. You wanted to trust. And he picked the exact wrong words and said the worst thing he could've said. I know you've dreamed that day over and over again in your mind and made him say something different every time. And I know that every single night he still ends up lying in your arms and pushing you away."

His eyes fall closed then, and he feels himself careening towards rage, all control starting to slip away. And then he feels her pushing at the edge of his mind, an image of Charles suddenly springing to life behind his eyelids.

"I can make him feel real," she says. "I can make him say the right thing."

"There wasn't one," Magneto mutters, but the Charles in his mind smiles at him and he stops because it's been far too long since he saw that smile, even in his dreams. Especially not in his dreams.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it of the image, and then asks, "Can you—can you make him _him_? Mystique says that it's hard to mimic people she doesn't know."

"From your memories," she says, nodding. "I can make him the way you saw him, at least."

"And—and you'll be here when it happens."

She shrugs. "I'd leave, but it doesn't work that way."

"I—no. No, he—just go to bed, Emma."

But before he has a chance to see if she's going to obey this time, she's gone and Charles is standing there, hands tucked into his trouser pockets and giving Erik that smile that Erik is sometimes sure is reserved only for him.

"Charles?"

He can't remember where he is or how he got there but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters because Charles is there and Erik's not sure how he knows it, but he knows that recently, Charles _hasn't been_.

“Hello, my friend,” Charles says. His smile is bright and he takes a step forward, wobbling just a little. Erik glances down and sees a cane in his hand and remembers the sound of metal biting into flesh, the feel of it in his hand. He remembers flattening it, making it smooth and round. His palm had been itching without the feel of Shaw’s coin in it, anyway.

“Where’ve you been?” he asks, because ever since that night in the water, Charles has _always been there_ , by his side and in his head and he never thought his own mind could feel so lonely.

“I needed some time away,” Charles says, and nods down at the cane. “To think.”

Erik wants to tell Charles he’s missed him and he needs him and all the things that he can never quite admit out loud, but Charles isn’t reading his mind right now--he’d know, he always can tell. And he’s never really been able to make his mouth form those words, so what comes out instead is, “I’m not sorry.”

“Erik--”

“I wish you hadn’t gotten hurt,” Erik manages, “but if that had been the price I had to pay--”

“My friend, you presume to have authority to make decisions regarding _my_ sacrifices.”

Erik shakes his head. “No. No, I--”

“The children miss you, Erik,” Charles says, apropos of nothing. “The school seems to have gotten rather larger in your absence. Lonelier.”

Erik gestures at his own head uselessly, because he wants to tell Charles that his head feels the same, but it’s one of those things he can never quite get his mouth to say. Why won’t Charles just read his mind already?

“Do you miss me?”

He doesn’t mean to say it, although he absolutely wants to know. He’d just been planning on gaining the information from Charles’ mind pressed against his because words seem inadequate here.

“I do,” Charles answers without hesitation. “You were my friend.”

“I--” Erik starts, and thinks, _the night before the beach?_ and gets frustrated because _why won’t Charles touch his mind?_

“Charles...” he trails off sort of helplessly, and makes a wiggling motion with his fingers. He can’t bring himself to say the word _please_ , but he projects it from his mind as loudly as he knows how.

“No.”

Erik blinks. “What?”

“I won’t.”

“I--but you’ve _always_ \--”

“Not anymore, Erik. If you wish to speak with me, you’ll have to use your words.”

“Nothing has ever stopped you from joining our minds,” Erik protests. “You--”

“It’s a crutch, my friend. And I’m afraid that between the two of us, I’m the only one who needs that now.”

“It is not.”

“Living in your own head,” Charles says softly, “is most assuredly a crutch to keep you from dealing with the reality of other people. The human beings you have built up in your mind--don’t look at me like that, Erik, I’ve _seen_ them--are not reality. So you stay in your own mind to perpetuate your own ideals.”

“I need my friend, Charles,” Erik says, slightly desperately, “not a therapist.”

“No therapy,” Charles says, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Just a lifetime of experiencing other minds. If you want to talk to me, you’re going to have to deal with the reality of me outside of your own head.”

Something about that feels strange to Erik, but he can’t put his finger on why.

“Charles...this would be so much easier if you’d just--”

“That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

Erik drops into the nearest chair and sets his head in his hands.

“Do you blame me?” he asks finally, gesturing to the cane Charles sets beside him when he takes the chair opposite Erik.

“Do you think I should?”

“That isn’t what I asked, Charles,” Erik snaps, because _damn it_ , this entire conversation would last two seconds if Charles would just touch his mind. Charles would send his version of the story to Erik, Erik would send his back, and then they could move on.

“My friend, you ask all the wrong questions.”

“Stop it. Stop doing _that_ and _talk_ to me, if you won’t join with me.”

“Very well,” Charles acquiesces. “I will speak more plainly. I do not blame you, Erik. I blame Shaw. I blame everyone you’ve ever met who made you turn those missiles around on their originators. But I do not blame you. Though some may feel that I should.” He pauses, then adds, “But I think we both know that as I said, this is not about me and whether or not I blame you. This is about whether or not you think I should.”

“I told you that I wasn’t sorry.”

“Being unrepentant about one’s actions is one thing. Feelings towards their unintended consequences, however, are quite another.”

“I...” Erik starts, but he never manages to finish the sentence.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Charles says after a moment.

Erik’s head snaps up. “I thought you wouldn’t--”

“A simple observation,” Charles corrects. “You look exhausted.”

“I don’t--I can’t. When I close my eyes I see it. The beach. I watch you fall over and over again and every time, I hold you while your blood stains my knees.”

Charles makes a soft sound, like the clicking of his tongue, and breathes out, “Oh, Erik.”

Erik moves across the distance between them, bending down to meet Charles’s eyes.

“I hate how lonely it is in here,” he says, and brings Charles’s fingers up to his temple. “Please, just...just be inside me.”

Charles looks torn for a long moment, as though he can’t decide if it’s better or worse to give in. He wants it, that much is plain on his face, and Charles stares at him like a hungry man before he slowly starts to pull his fingers away.

“No,” Erik says. “No, if you don’t blame me, if you--if you forgive me, then--”

“It’s not a matter of my forgiveness, Erik. It’s not a matter of blame. It’s knowing what you’re capable of.”

“But I was always like this,” Erik says desperately. “From the moment you met me, this is who I was. You always knew what I could do--what I _wanted_ to do. I haven’t changed, Charles. You’re forgetting that.”

“That’s actually the point,” Charles says softly, and strokes his fingers through Erik’s hair. “You _did_ change. I felt you, Erik. I saw the good in you. And now--”

“And now you won’t even look at me,” Erik snaps. “So how could you possibly know?”

Charles is quiet for a long moment, and then he finally admits, “I’m afraid to. I’m afraid of what I will see.”

Every single thing that crosses Erik’s mind is yet another instance of something he can only say to Charles in their own minds. Frustrated, he lunges forward and presses his mouth to Charles’s, only pulling away when Charles lets out a sharp breath.

“Erik.”

“Can we just--”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

Erik kisses him again and Charles’s fingers tighten in his hair.

“You’re being stubborn,” Charles tells him. “This is not the way to avoid having to deal with the situation.”

“Charles, does it look like that’s my concern right now?”

Charles gives him that look, the incredibly frustrating one that very clearly says that he knows so much more than everyone else does, and maybe that’s true. But Erik can’t stand looking at it, true or not, so he gets to his feet and holds out Charles’s cane.

“Come to my bed. We will talk after.”

“Erik.”

“It’s a compromise. In the interest of mending fences and seeing the other side and--and will you please just come to bed?”

“This isn’t like the night before the beach,” Charles sighs.

“I know.”

After a moment, Charles’s hand slides into his. Erik tries not to tug him to the bed, not with Charles’s limp, anyway, but he just needs this to be happening _now_.

“Slow down, Erik. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You did. You might.”

“But I won’t.”

For the first time since they met, Erik inexplicably doesn’t believe him.

They fall onto the bed as a tangle of limbs and Erik divests them of their clothes as quickly as possible. It’s not even that he wants to skip past the quiet moments before, it’s just that if Charles won’t bare his mind, won’t look at Erik’s in the same state, then this is as close as they can get to being truly naked with each other.

Erik’s scarred skin stands in dark contrast to the pale, unmarred flesh of Charles’s chest, but Erik knows that there is one, that there is a spot on Charles’s body that was made in the same mold as his own. He wants to turn Charles over and look at it, to run his fingers over where it has healed, but the idea makes his face heat with shame.

“My friend, you appear to be thinking far too much about this. I assure you that nothing so thoughtful is required.”

“You are beautiful,” Erik tells him, mostly because he knows it will catch Charles off guard.

It does, and he blinks before replying, “And you as well. You’re thinking so hard, though, that soon I’ll be hearing you without even trying.”

“Good. I want you to. Can’t you just--just during this? It’s _so much better_ that way.”

“Erik.”

His voice contains just enough warning that Erik backs down for fear of losing it all.

“Okay,” he says. “All right.”

“Erik, relax. This will never work if you--”

“Have you--” Erik interrupts, and then stumbles over the rest of the sentence.

“What?”

“With anyone else? Since then? With her? Or with--”

“No. But would it matter?”

“Yes. So much.”

“Why would you even think--have you?”

“I’ve barely even--with myself.”

Charles curls his hand around Erik’s cock, stroking lazily. “Come now, Erik. Surely you’ve at least--”

“Not enough. Not nearly--every time I try, I see you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“No, I see _this_.” Erik slides his hand underneath Charles and rests it on the small of his back. “It’s--I can barely--”

“Oh.”

“So I just...don’t.”

“Well, let’s see if we can fix that, shall we? I’m sure you just need a better--”

“You.”

“A better me?”

“No. Just... _you_.”

Charles curls his free hand around the base of Erik’s neck and pulls him into a kiss.

“I’m here now, Erik. You’re not alone.”

Somehow, even with Charles’s hands on him, even with Charles’s breath warm on his neck, Erik can’t shake the feeling that he really, really is.

“I--I miss being able to show you what I wanted,” Erik says instead of addressing that. “Remember that?”

“I do,” Charles agrees. “But you can still tell me, Erik. Just say it. I’m listening, Erik. I’m always listening to you. Sometimes even when you wish I weren’t.”

“But you don’t hear me when it’s with words. You don’t understand.”

“What are you talking about? It’s hard not to hear you sometimes, my friend.”

“You don’t _listen_.”

“I’m listening now, Erik. I always have been. I just don’t always agree. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you. I promise.”

“I want...you,” he says, and tries to catch on to even one of the dozens of images flashing before his mind.

It’s an odd feeling, to be so reliant on Charles’s mutation that his own natural form of communication feels primitive.

“How?”

“Just...Charles--”

“Do you want me to keep stroking you? Do you want my mouth? Do you want me to let you do whatever you want to me? Because I would, you know.”

“You still trust me?”

“Always, my friend. _Always._ ”

“Then...can I see it?”

Charles glances down between their bodies and rolls enough away from Erik that the light hits his groin.

“I suppose,” he says, and makes a sweeping gesture.

“No, I--I meant...where I hurt you.”

For a brief moment, he wonders if even _that_ is clear enough, because Charles’s hand stutters over the left side of his chest. But then he releases all hold on Erik and turns over, stretching himself out on his stomach with his head turned to see Erik’s face.

“It’s nothing special,” he says softly. “It’s...”

“It’s like being marked,” Erik says, and touches one of his own. 

“I suppose so, yes,” Charles says idly. “Although between the two of us, I’d have preferred it if you just gave me a hickey.”

Erik laughs despite himself, doubling over and pressing his forehead into Charles’s lower back.

“You’re horrible,” he tells him, and Charles shrugs.

“It’s been said,” Charles says agreeably. “Now did you plan on actually doing something, or were you just going to stare all night?”

"I did," Erik says. "I will." He licks his lips and runs his fingers over the mark, watches as Charles shivers in spite of himself.

***

Emma takes a sip of her cocktail and stands, crossing the room to close the curtains of Erik's four poster bed. She's not interested in watching. Erik's already moaning by the time she retakes her seat, and it's not long after that when she carefully disengages her mind from his as he finally falls asleep. He will no doubt curse her in the morning, scream and shout and yell over what she's done. But he will not kill her. He will not ask her to leave. He will place her under his _closest_ protection, claiming she's simply an asset he must tend to, never admitting why he now depends on her so deeply. He won't need to. A telepath is a valuable thing to let go to waste, after all. Their talents are...many. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from this Balzac quote: "Many men are moved by the mere semblance of suffering in a woman; they take the look of pain as a sign of constancy or of love."


End file.
